I saw it again today.
I drive to a shopping plaza in Cincinnati, and, in the empty space where a clothing store has closed, the Wandering Bookstore has installed itself.
“Giant Book Sale!” proclaims the big yellow sign, which appears to be the only name the store has.
The store is filled with cheap tables piled high with cheap books, mostly remaindered trade paperbacks of profound and fascinating obscurity, treasures that must be claimed now or lost forever.
I’ve seen it before, always in a different place. I know that, if I go back to that plaza again next week, I’ll find nothing but an empty storefront, with no evidence that a bookstore was ever there.
Then I’ll go shopping on the other side of town, and there they’ll be. But I could never find them by looking; they can only be discovered by serendipity.
Who are these wandering booksellers? Is it the same kind of magic as the Mysterious Shops in Pratchett’s novels? Are they avoiding their creditors by staying constantly on the move? Do they confine themselves to Cincinnati, or do they wander the nation, or even the world? Is there really a profit to be made in the constant unloading and reloading of books into ever-changing, always identical stores? Do the nervous-looking clerks travel with the books (perhaps in large shipping crates), or do they clandestinely hire different people in every stop?
Suddenly I am fascinated by the Bookstore Nomads.